


Bring all your houses tumbling down

by schweet_heart



Series: Bond Fic [1]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: 00Q - Freeform, Action/Adventure, Humour, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Major Character Injury, Mission Fic, Missions Gone Wrong, Mutual Pining, Oblivious Q, Snark, Unresolved Sexual Tension, oblivious bond
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-18
Updated: 2017-01-18
Packaged: 2018-09-18 06:57:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9373169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/schweet_heart/pseuds/schweet_heart
Summary: It had been meant to be a routine operation, or M assured him they wouldn’t have risked sending their top analyst into the field. All Q had to do was show up at a quaint little hotel in the south of France and pretend to be an international software engineer in town for a local convention. 007 would take care of the rest.Needless to say, things didn’t go entirely as planned.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this a long time ago, during my 00Q obsession phase; I always meant to add to it, but since that never happened I present it here with all apologies. Hopefully it works as a stand-alone slice-of-life fic anyways :)

 

 

"Q. Q, stay with me."

 

It sounds like an order, and Q is vaguely aware that he is used to resenting that voice, especially when it sounds like that. He wants to tell it as much, but he also has the horrible feeling that if he opens his eyes, if he even manages to swim one more inch toward consciousness, he will shortly begin to realise several other things that he would rather not address right now. He feels much as an ant must feel, looking up and realising that a boot is about to fall upon it, but unable to fully comprehend the shape or magnitude of the impending disaster. His ears are ringing. Somewhere close by, someone is groaning, and it takes a second before he realises that it's him. 

 

"Q."

 

In spite of himself, Q opens his eyes. 007's worried face swims into focus above him in the dimness, all trace of concern melting away as soon as he realises Q is conscious.

 

"Good. I need your help."

 

"Whuh---" Q begins, but before he can do more than open his mouth, the agent is shoving something between his teeth and pushing his jaw gently shut around it.

 

"Bite down on that for me."

 

It's a strange request, but then again, Q's had stranger, and he's disoriented enough that he just goes with it for the moment, turning his head to the side and blinking rapidly as he tries to make sense of what is going on around him. It's snowing. No — it's dust, fine plaster dust drifting down on them from somewhere above 007's shoulder. The ceiling above them is barely worthy of the name, looking instead like concrete building blocks that have been smashed by an angry child and dropped on top of one another. It's puzzling — Q wastes a few moments of precious brainpower trying to understand it — but then 007 does something and abruptly Q feels his body spasm as pain pierces his side, hot and biting. He cries out, muffled by what he now understands is the gag in his mouth. 

 

"Shh." 007 sounds even more stressed now, if that were possible. One of his big, meaty hands ghosts briefly over Q's head, a comforting gesture Q would have bet good money 007 had never before employed in his life. At the moment, however, Q is in too much agony to appreciate it. "They're going to be checking for survivors, and you can't let them hear you. Do you understand? Nod if you understand."

 

Dutifully, Q nods. He breathes in through his nose, smelling plaster and sawdust, a faint scent of ozone in the air. An explosion. There's been an explosion. The pain ebbs slightly, and he thinks suddenly of their luggage, all his precious gadgets, his computers — all no doubt blown to smithereens along with the rest of the hotel. The thought hurts rather more than the horrible glass splinters 007 is currently pulling from his stomach.

 

"Okay, I think that's the last of it," 007 says after a minute or two, keeping his voice low. He glances away from Q in the direction where the door used to be, like he's checking whether they might be overheard. "I don't think any of them went in too deep, but you likely have concussion and several broken ribs, so take it slow."

 

It's a moment before Q realises that the agent actually expects him to get up and walk out of the room. 007 is already getting to his feet, looking as if he's aged twenty years thanks to the sheen of plaster that has settled on his shoulders and hair. There’s blood smeared across his forehead and soaking his shirt but judging from the way he moves, not all of it is his. It makes Q feel queasy to realise that a good portion is probably his own. 

 

He reaches up and pulls out the gag. "I feel like an entire building was just dropped on my head," he croaks, and it comes out sounding slightly accusing. 007 looks down at him, eyebrows raised. "I'm not going anywhere," he adds, seeing that the other man still doesn't get it. "Unless it's on a stretcher and there's plenty of morphine involved."

 

007's mouth quirks. "Ordinarily I would agree with you," he says. "But these are special circumstances. Namely, our hotel room just exploded, and if we don't get out of here fast, whoever planted the bomb will be coming back to pick off the survivors."

 

The thought is certainly an unattractive one, and after a moment Q decides that circumstances being what they are he should probably make an effort to do what 007 suggests. He pushes himself up on his elbows, intending to take the proffered hand and lever himself to his feet, but the movement sends a tearing pain through his abdomen and back and suddenly Q realises that things are very much not okay. He must let out some sound, because in the next instant 007 is kneeling beside him again, eyes sharp and assessing as he probes gently at Q’s body. “What is it?”

 

“I think I'm -- caught on something,” Q says, struggling to catch his breath. “Rebar, maybe. Left side, sharp, but not too deep.”

 

The agent swears, and for the first time Q realises that 007 is definitely not operating at his usual unflappable best right now, or he couldn’t have missed something as blatant as a bar stuck in his companion’s chest. Somehow, this scares him more than anything else. 

 

“Help me up,” he says, swallowing. There’s a chance that moving is the worst thing he can do right now — a fairly big chance, as Q well knows — but on the other hand, he refuses to stay here pinned like a bug to wait for the bullet that will finish him off. And then there’s 007, who seems even more like a caged bear trapped in this ruined space, his entire body seething with his inability to fight his way out of the situation. Someone has to keep the man from losing it, and it seems fate has appointed him for the job. “I can do this. I think. Just — take it slow.”

 

007 moves back towards him, a looming giant. “If I move you, you could bleed out. Or worse.”

 

“If you don’t move me, I could get shot in the head,” Q retorts. Then, more gently, because he can see that 007 is actually disturbed by this prospect, he says, “I can help you. I’m an asset. And I really don’t want to die alone with a piece of metal stuck through my chest.”

 

“I wouldn't let that happen,” 007 says, sounding mildly offended that Q would consider it a possibility. “I can take out a few rogue gunmen.”

 

Q decides not to argue with that. “Regardless, being stuck here isn’t going to do either of us much good in the long run. Now help me up.”

 

The agent’s expression is unreadable, but he does as Q requests, levering him upright slowly and painstakingly so as not to jar his injury any further. The rebar slides free of his flesh with a wet sucking sound and another bolt of agony. Q closes his eyes and breathes past the pain, nausea choking his throat and making sweat spring out on his forehead. His entire back is soaked, and he thinks briefly of arteries and blood loss and how long it would take for him to die like this. The world around him dips and sways.

 

“Lean forward,” 007 says. When Q makes no motion to obey, Bond does it for him, drawing up Q’s knees and moving his head so that it’s propped up against them. Q is vaguely aware of his shirt being peeled up, and blunt hands pressing against the wound in his back.

 

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” 007 says, though considering Q can’t see the injury himself this is rather less comforting than it might have been. He mentions this and the agent snorts. “Fine. It looks horrible, but it didn’t hit anything vital, so I think you’ll live if we can get you to a medical facility in time. There’s a first aid kit down the hall. Hold on.”

 

Q wonders when Bond’s definition of “a medical facility” became “the first aid kit down the hall” and decides that he really doesn’t want to know. In any case, Bond is gone before he can ask, and he waits, breathing shallowly so as not to disturb the wound in his back. When the agent returns, he says, “I don’t suppose it comes with a fully trained medical professional as well, does it?”

 

Bond just smirks. “What’s the matter, Q, don’t you trust me?”

 

“Not as far as I could throw you. Which isn’t very far.”

 

"Not even on your best day," Bond agrees, because he just has to be a dick, even now.

 

 

+

 

 

Being stitched up is an unpleasant process. This doesn’t exactly come as a surprise to Q, who has overheard and overseen the procedure plenty of times, and can infer from the amount of swearing that frequently accompanies it that it’s not exactly a walk in the park. What does surprise him is that Bond is uncharacteristically gentle about it. Those big, blunt hands are deft and delicate on his back, the craggy face creased with concentration. He doesn’t even tease Q when he flinches as the needle pierces his skin.

 

“You’ve done this before,” Q says, mostly to take his mind off the idea of being sewn together like a rag doll. 

 

“Quite often, yes. Though usually on myself.”

 

“Isn’t that difficult?”

 

“Not unduly.” Bond pulls the thread taut; snips. One stitch down. “I’m double jointed and ambidextrous. That kind of flexibility comes in handy, sometimes.”

 

In his mind, Q turns this over. Flexible. Not a word he would have associated with 007, who is more like a moving mountain in some ways, as implacable as a grizzly, as unbreakable as titanium metal alloy or bullet-proof glass. “Interesting.”

 

Pull; snip. The ghost of a laugh brushes against his bare back that somehow manages to make Q’s skin quiver, in spite of everything. 

 

“I’m more than just a pretty face.”

 

“Fortunately."

 

007 laughs again, and Q hates himself, just a little bit, when he realises that’s exactly the response he was aiming for. Clearly the medication has gone to his head. 

 

“Done,” 007 announces, leaning back. He packs everything back into the first aid kit, up to and including the red-stained cotton wool and antiseptic he’d used to clean the wound. It had taken all of ten minutes, but it’s the fact that Bond had paused to do it at all that has Q confused when he knows there must be teams sweeping the building by now. 

 

“What is it you’re not telling me?” he asks, just as Bond snaps the medical kit shut.

 

“What makes you think there’s something I’m not telling you?”

 

Q snorts. “I’m a genius, Bond. I notice things. Such as the little fact that less than quarter of an hour ago you couldn’t wait to get out of here, and now you don’t seem like you’re in any hurry to leave. I know how you field agent types feel about unnecessary stop-overs, especially for medical matters. So, I repeat: what aren’t you telling me?”

 

007 sighs, then straightens. 

 

“It’s possible the wound in your back wouldn’t have waited until we got to an appropriate medical facility,” he says reluctantly. “There’s no point in dragging you along with me if you’re just going to die before we get anywhere. Besides, I saw the search party going in the opposite wing, so I knew we had a few extra minutes.”

 

Q wants to be insulted by this, but really, it’s surprisingly sentimental for 007. 

 

“And?” he says.

 

“And the main stairwell may have been destroyed,” Bond says.

 

They’re on the ninth floor — well, the eighth, after the explosion — and Q knows better than to ask whether there’s anything so civilised as a lift they can turn to. If there had been, they would not be sitting here having this conversation.

 

“You expect me to climb down the fire escape,” Q says. “Like this.”

 

“I won’t let you fall,” the agent assures him, and in spite of everything, Q finds that this is just a tiny bit reassuring. “Just follow me.”

 

 

+

 

 

They make it out of the building. The kill team doesn't. Q is impressed at Bond's ability to take out several thugs with guns, while also shielding a wounded companion from gunfire, and hanging from a flimsy metal ladder far too many feet above the ground. He supposes it's one of those things that double-0 training must cover: How to Escape from Assassins in a Devastated Building in Three Easy Steps. 

 

Q, on the other hand, has had no such training, and by the time they reach the end of the nine-storey climb he's trembling and exhausted, his whole body soaked with sweat. His hands are shaking, and he's pretty sure his legs are made of rubber. 

 

"Where now?" he asks, straightening up gingerly. All he really wants to do is collapse somewhere soft and sleep for a hundred years. 

 

"Back out to the Main Street," Bond says shortly. "We need transport."

 

Of course they do. It’s remarkable how many of 007's missions involve stolen vehicles of some description. "And then?"

 

"Safe house."

 

Bond is moving too quickly, and Q finds it difficult to keep up. The agent doesn't notice, until he reaches the corner of the building and stops, gun drawn, to peer around the edge in search of lurking gunmen. When he realises Q isn't behind him, he turns, frowning.

 

"Are you all right?"

 

"Just peachy," Q says, wincing. He limps to a stop beside Bond, and grabs hold of the wall to keep himself upright. Bond's frown deepens. 

 

"You're not all right."

 

"Well, no, I did just get impaled by a rebar and almost crushed under half a building," Q says tartly. Bond looks hurt, which is ridiculous; he's a grown man, and anyway, if he's going to insist on stating the obvious Q can't be blamed for reacting to it. He hates it when people are unnecessarily stupid. "I'll be fine. Keep going."

 

This triggers something like an internal debate for all of half a second. Then Bond nods, tells Q to stay put and jogs across the street to "unlock" one of the doors to a nondescript white sedan parked outside the hotel. Q is impressed. Judging from past experience, he'd have expected Bond to jack something a lot more eye-catching. But he supposes that the agent hasn't come this far without learning how to keep a low profile when it counts. Bond hot-wires the vehicle in record time, and as soon as the engine is idling Q crosses the street to slide into the passenger side, one hand pressed to the wound on his back. He can see Bond watching him out of the corner of his eye, but the agent says nothing, just puts the car into gear and floors the accelerator, for which Q is grateful. Now that the first rush of adrenaline is over the pain is starting to set in, and he leans against the door with a groan, closing his eyes.

 

"What I wouldn't give for a cup of Earl Grey right now," he says.

 

Bond laughs. "As soon as we find somewhere decent," he promises.

 

 

+

 

 

Q dozes in the car, content to trust in 007’s driving skills for the moment since it seems that they are not being followed by anyone particularly threatening. Thus far, his first experience of being on the other side of the comm on a mission is not turning out as he had hoped. It had been meant to be a routine operation, or M assured him they wouldn’t have risked sending their top analyst into the field. All Q had to do was show up at a quaint little hotel in the south of France and pretend to be an international software engineer in town for a local convention. Bond was undercover as his bodyguard, although in reality this was a ruse to allow them both access to the venue, whereupon Q had been tasked with checking out the shiny new toys for potential acquisitions while 007 foiled an under-the-table tech deal that was apparently being brokered at the conference. Two birds, one stone, yada yada. 

 

Needless to say, things didn’t go entirely as planned. 

 

“Which group was it that set the bomb, do you think?” Q asks without opening his eyes. “The Yakuza or the Russian mobsters?”

 

“Could have been either,” Bond says, after a moment’s thought. “Although smart money says the Russians were probably the culprits. Why, does it matter?”

 

“Mm. Just wondering whose financial infrastructure to destroy when we get back to MI6.” 

 

Bond gives a soft laugh. Q’s back is aching, a persistent, vicious pain that throbs in time to the vehicle’s engine, but he manages a smile all the same.

 

“I wouldn’t have pegged you for the vengeful type.”

 

Q opens one eye, just slightly. “Have you forgotten what happened the last time you destroyed one of my favourite pieces of tech?”

 

Bond winces, and Q smirks in spite of himself. 

 

“Touché,” the agent says. “I take it back. I pity the Russian mobster who has to deal with you when you get your hands on a laptop.”

 

“A smartphone would suffice,” Q says, because he doesn’t want Bond to think that he’s _entirely_ useless away from his desk. “Although unfortunately it would require satellite capabilities for the particular vengeance I have in mind.” He tries to straighten up, sending a lance of pain through his back, and grimaces. “Oh, I am going to do some serious damage when I get my hands on their economy.”

 

Bond glances at him, and maybe Q is imagining it but there might be something like concern in those blue eyes. “Bad?”

 

“Unpleasant. But I suppose I’ll live, providing your sewing skills are better than your ability to stay out of trouble.”

 

007 doesn’t say anything to that, which Q thinks is possibly not a good sign, and when he turns his attention back to the road he floors the accelerator, leaning forward slightly as though he can force the car to go faster simply by willing it. Q bites down on his lower lip in consternation. Definitely not a good sign, then.

 

“If it was the Russians,” Q says, trying to keep his mind off the possibility that he really is dying and just doesn’t know it yet. “Does that mean they’re the ones involved in the undercover deal we were sent to investigate?”

 

“Possibly,” Bond says. “It’s hard to say. Could be the attack was unrelated.”

 

Q quirks a sceptical brow. “And how often does that happen, in your estimation?” he asks, a shade too politely. “That one mission accidentally gets blown to smithereens — in this case, literally — by sheer coincidence?”

 

Bond shoots him an amused grin, showing far too many teeth. “More often than you’d think,” he says. “But I take your point. You think they were onto us?”

 

“If so, they must have had outside help. To the best of my knowledge, we neither of us did anything that ought to have tipped them off.”

 

The agent is silent for a while, apparently thinking, steering the car through a series of sharp curves with impressive nonchalance given their speed. Q waits patiently. Once, he might have interpreted the pause as indicative of mental somnolence or even a decided lack of intelligence, but over the relatively short period of their acquaintance he had been forced to revise his opinion of the older man. James Bond is not stupid, although his intelligence is more the reactive cunning of a fox than the theoretical brilliance which characterises Q’s own much-prized brain. Finally, Bond says, “There may be another explanation.”

 

“I’m all ears.”

 

“I’ve worked with the Russians before. Not recently, and given the rate of turnover I wouldn’t have expected the leadership to remain intact long enough for news to travel, especially since the majority of the cell I worked with is dead.” How, he didn’t specify, but Q could hazard a guess. “That said, there’s always the possibility that one of the remnants recognised me.”

 

“You mean to say MI6 sent us on this mission knowing full well your cover might be compromised?”

 

“Ours not to reason why,” Bond says sardonically, shrugging a little, and Q can’t help the slight smirk that pulls at his mouth momentarily while he considers their options. 

 

“So, lets review shall we? _Someone_ blew up our hotel, either the Russians or the Japanese, possibly because our covers were blown, possibly by accident but equally probably on purpose. Meanwhile, MI6 thinks we’re scattered all over the hotel along with our luggage, the bad guys know we’re out here, and we have next to no supplies apart from a stolen car and whatever happens to be in our pockets at the moment. Does that about sum things up?”

 

“You forgot one thing,” Bond says seriously. “We’re both alive. And I plan to keep it that way.”

 

Q sighs, feeling every bruise on his body ache as if in response to this declaration. He’s fairly certain that Bonds methods of staying alive leave much to be desired.

 

“All right, double-0 seven,” he says. “You’re the expert on all of this. What do we do now?”

 

“The only thing we can do,” Bond says, glancing over at him with an expression on his face which suggests that Q is the crazy one in this equation. “We track down whoever’s responsible, and take them out.”

 

“Oh, is that all?” Q says. “Well, thank goodness for that, I thought this was going to be _difficult_.”

 

The smile that spreads slowly across Bond’s face is wolf-like, but it’s the broadest grin Q can remember seeing on him that wasn’t intended to seduce some hapless young thing into bed with him. Q doesn’t want to admit that he likes it, but he does. A lot. 

 

There is obviously something seriously wrong with him.


End file.
